To Mary Williams Winslow
Madrid. April 2, 1912
In England I visited my usual hosts, and went besides to Cambridge where I slept in a medieval dungeon, in the Clock /Tower of Trinity College, being the guest of Bertie Russell: I sentimentally evoked memories of the past by walking on the towpath and watching the college Eights practice; I dined in Hall and altogether drenched myself in diluted emotions. It was terribly cold, particularly in bed.—In Paris I was only a few days, and did nothing worth mentioning, except to visit the apartment where I am to live next month, and after, with my friend Strong. It is very suitable, but I could imagining something more luxurious and Byzantine, if I put my mind to it. Possibly, if I find Strong docile, I may add a few touches of frivolity to the solemn scene.—In Avila, while continuing to suffer from the cold, I found my sister and her family as usual, and stayed nearly a fort-night; whence, I came here, to begin life with my new mate, Mercedes. We get on beautifully, I eat a lot, (having had only one colic so far) walk a lot, and have even managed to do some real work, having had one or two spells of industry and absorption over my books and papers.
My native town is, for the most part, rather mean and ugly, and the people of a low type; but the newer parts are pretty, almost distinguished; the nice people have a great deal of charm and naturalness, as well as feeling: the amusements really amuse, the Churches are churches, and the sun and sky are like the Platonic Ideal of these things. The weather, though variable, is often delightful, and the Park and promenades are fine. So that I am quite happy here, and should be glad to return next winter, if my sister Josephine were here and wanted me to keep her company.
It is one o’clock, and at any moment Mercedes, who is gadding all day, will knock at my door and cry ¡Jorge! so that I may not have many more minutes to finish this sheet in. We dine at one and sup at eight—call it lunch and dinner, and it would be quite English. The food, however, is very Spanish, and excellent; only I eat too much. There is a restaurant, called “The Ideal Room” (in English) which almost deserves its name, and where I usually have tea; the waiters have silk stockings and shoes with silver buckles, and at about six there is a great gathering of ladies with daughters, young swells, and foreigners. The bull-fighting element, with its many camp-followers, is excluded by the prices (tea is 15 cents!) but is to be found next door, at another café, and opposite in great numbers. It is very picturesque in appearance and even more so in language; the love of talk, and of a sort of constant play-acting in real life, is extraordinary here. It is as among the ancients, and explains the origin of Greek drama and eloquence—perhaps of all literature.—Mercedes must have found some particularly grievous wrong to right this morning; but my stomach wants to be given something to do, while my brain says basta!
From The Letters of George Santayana: Book Two, 1910-1920. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2001.
Location of manuscript: The Houghton Library, Harvard University, Cambridge MA